


Sugarplum

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Disgustingly sweet... literally, F/M, Fluff, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Every morning, you leave a sugar plum danish at Bucky's door—in secret, of course. If it makes him happy, that's more than enough.





	Sugarplum

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Having a crush on Bucky and leaving him a sugar plum Danish at his door every morning until he catches you.”
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“And all I was doing was buying some plums,” Bucky finishes. He sighs and flashes Steve a sideways smile. His blue eyes are bright with a mix of amusement and melancholy. “Teach me not to go to farmer’s markets.”

You gaze up at Bucky from your spot on the floor, your breath catching at that bittersweet smile. Every time you look at Bucky, you can’t help but stare. No matter what he’s doing, smiling, frowning, whatever, there’s something about him that draws you in. Maybe it’s the gentle slope of his brow, or the dimple in his scruffy chin, or his perfect mouth, or his perfect body, or his perfect—

Wanda nudges you. You tear your eyes from Bucky and frown at her.

“What?” your mutter.

Wanda just raises her eyebrows with a gentle smirk, her eyes flicking towards the couch. Your cheeks flare with heat; dread pools in the pit of your stomach. Did he notice? You lay your head on Wanda’s shoulder and close your eyes, hoping not.

No such luck.

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

You crack and eye open and force a smile. “Just tired.”

“It is late,” Wanda says, taking pity. “And you’re still getting over that last mission.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” You force yourself to your feet, wincing—you’d sprained your ankle avoiding a mine three days back, and it hadn’t fully healed.

Bucky stands quickly and grabs your elbow. His eyes dance along your face, brow pinched in concern. Your cheeks burn hotter than ever at his close scrutiny.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low.

You bite your lip and nod, not daring to meet his eye. Instead, you stare at his perfect mouth with its full lips and its cupid’s bow and its pink hue.

“Alright,” he says. He drops his hand from your arm, and you flee.

All your dreams that night are of Bucky.

 

—

 

The next morning, you lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling.

Yes, you’ve got it bad. Bucky’s invaded your thoughts, your dreams; there’s no escape. Wanda has told you a dozen times to just tell him, but you can’t. Shyness bites your tongue, fear stops your mouth. No matter how tempting Bucky is, you’re too afraid of rejection.

Once bitten, twice shy, or so the saying goes, and you’ve had more than your fair share of rejection. Middle school, high school, college… Even that one fellow trainee during your first month at SHIELD. All of them said no.

And none of them can hold a candle to Bucky.

Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. Confessing is impossible, but you itch to do something for him. Something secret to make him smile with more genuine delight than he’d shown last night, what with his lingering sadness about his traumatic return to the real world.

You chew your lip, hands linked behind your head. What could you do for him? He was capable of whatever he wanted. He had the money, connections, and looks to get whatever he wanted. What could you, a fresh face on the team with nothing but your resume to your name, have to offer? Certainly nothing fancy—no new upgrades for his arm, no fancy guns, no expensive gloves.

What did he want that you could get?

You roll out your ankle, and as you wince it hits you.

Plums.

Bucky likes plums.

 

—

 

Every morning, Bucky goes running with Steve. Steve had insisted at first—something, anything, to get Bucky out of the safety of home and acclimate him into the world again.

“The more people see evidence of you being normal,” Steve had said, “the faster things’ll clear up.”

So off they go to Central Park every morning, bright and early. Or dark and early, in the winter months.

By now, it’s a habit. People don’t run away from him anymore, mostly, and running with Steve is better than running alone. Steve’s the only one who can really keep up with him, at least of the folks at the tower. Thor can keep up, but he’s only around sporadically these days. The best days are when they can bully Sam into coming along, and then Bucky and Steve can be assholes together the whole time.

It’s nice.

The other nice part of running with Steve is that there’s always a sugar plum danish waiting for him when he gets back. Bucky doesn’t know how Steve does it, especially since he doesn’t go every day, but he’s looking forward to it today. After two weeks in southeastern Russia, he’s craving his danish something fierce. If he runs faster than usual, Steve doesn’t say anything.

If anything, Steve smirks and pushes him harder.

Punk.

They make it back to the tower almost half an hour early. Bucky’s sweating hard, desperate for a shower and his danish.

But there’s no danish at his door. Bucky skids to a halt.

“Steve,” he says accusingly, “where’s my danish?”

Steve blinks and wipes some sweat from his brow. “How should I know?”

“Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky jabs a finger Steve’s way. “Your danish. You get me a danish.”

“No I don’t,” Steve says.

“Yes you do,” Bucky argues. “That first time we went, I thanked you for it!”

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Steve walks backwards away from Bucky, smirking, and adds, “Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer, Buck.”

Bucky scowls, but Steve ducks into his suite before Bucky can retort. Bucky barrels inside his own suite, fuming.

Who would like him, with all his baggage? He can’t think of anyone on the team who’s stupid enough to put themselves in such a position. Well, he can think of some idiots, but there’s no reason to suspect any romantic inclinations from any of them. Scott’s busy with Hope, and Stark is Stark. The rest…

Bucky peels off his sweaty shirt and chucks it in the laundry bin. He bites his tongue as his thoughts turn to you. He’s seen you watching him closely sometimes, but he’s certain there’s nothing to it. You’re smart, sensible—too sensible to get caught up with _him_.

His scowl comes back in full force as he peels off his running shorts. No, you’ve got better things to do than think about a hundred-year old morally repugnant assassin.

Bucky grabs his towel and stalks to take his shower. He’s got no secret admirer. All he’s got are some unsatisfied cravings and a conniving best friend.

 

—

 

You lean heavily against the elevator wall, panting, bakery box in hand. “JARVIS, did I make it in time?”

“No, Agent, I regret to say. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes returned to their suites two minutes ago.”

“Shit.” You run your free hand down your neck and kick your heel against the wall. The line at the bakery around the corner was long today, and apparently Bucky and Steve had run faster than usual. On any other day, you’d still have fifteen minutes, easy.

You stare down at the little bakery box with its cellophane-covered window. The sugar plum danish inside looks just like every other you’ve bought: flaky pastry, glistening filling, vanilla frosting drizzle. It’s pretty.

Bucky likes them. Or at least, he’s eaten all the ones you’ve left for him over the past six weeks. You haven’t seen him eating them, but you can imagine him licking fruity glaze off his fingers. The thought is… tempting.

Far more tempting than the danish in your hand, no matter how good it looks. If you weren’t allergic to plums, you’d just eat it yourself.

If you weren’t allergic to rejection, you’d just eat _Bucky_ up.

You groan aloud as the elevator slows to a stop at the residential floor. The doors don’t open right away. Instead, JARVIS’s voice chimes, “If you please, Agent, Sergeant Barnes is in the shower. You may have time if—”

“Well open the door!” you exclaim.

The second the doors open, you squeeze through and dash through the halls. Bucky’s suite is at the far end by Steve’s; it’s never seemed so far from the elevator. You hold the bakery box gingerly, hoping the danish doesn’t get banged out of shape.

But the second you turn the corner, you yank yourself back out of sight. You press yourself against the hallway wall, eyes wide and face burning. Bucky’s door is open, and in the split second it was in view, Bucky was standing there, staring at the clear floor at his feet.

Dressed only in a pair of jeans.

You pray he didn’t see you, but you know full well you weren’t running with light feet the way Natasha taught you. No, you’d stupidly been crashing along, heavy breathing and all. You cock an ear; Bucky hasn’t shut his door. Your heart races. Is he coming to investigate? If you leave the danish where you are, will he find it?

You bend to set the danish down, but before you let go, someone clears their throat.

Your heart stops.

Slowly, you stand up, hands trembling, leaving the danish on the floor. Only once you’re fully upright do you drag your eyes up.

Bucky is leaning around the corner, just his head and bare right shoulder visible. His hair is black with water, a few strands clinging to his cheek. His blue eyes are narrowed at the bakery box, but then he looks up and frowns at you.

“Did Steve put you up to this?” he asks.

You blanch. “No! Of course not!” You wring your hands and look away. Can he tell how hot your face is? “I’m sorry, I—”

“So you’ve just been doing this on your own?”

You nod. If you’re not emitting smoke, you should be. You push the danish towards him with the toe of your shoe.

“Why?” he asks.

“Um…” You swallow. “You like plums,” you say weakly.

“So?”

You twist your fingers together in front of your stomach, your eyes still on the floor. “I wanted to do something nice,” you whisper.

Bucky steps into your field of vision. Your eyes lift from his bare feet up past his abs and chest to settle on the dimple in his chin. You can’t bring yourself to look any higher, afraid of the frown you’re certain lingers in his expression.

But when he lifts your chin with a cool metal finger, you have no choice but to meet his eyes. You swallow at the softness in his gaze, sudden hope flaring in your chest. Could he really be glad?

“All that just for me?” His voice is soft, husky; your knees go weak.

“Yes,” you answer. You lick your lips. “You deserve nice things.”

“Ain’t you sweet as sugar,” he murmurs, his blue eyes bright. “Does that mean I deserve you?”

You take his hand and kiss the shining knuckles, your lips leaving their mark on the metal and your eyes never leaving his. Bucky slides his other hand around your waist and tugs you close. The danish box gets caught between your feet, but neither of you notice.

“I don’t know about deserve, and I don’t know how sweet I am,” you say shyly. You steel yourself with a hand on his abs. “But I do like you.”

Bucky’s smile is as blinding as the sun. “You know, sugarplum,” he says, “I like you too.”


End file.
